Streetlights
by Kokura
Summary: The streetlights are always the same. Pairings in chronological order: light LuciusxDraco Malfoycest, SnapexDraco, HarryxDraco, and Tom RiddleVoldemortxDraco.Alternate universe and Fantasy in the sense that none of this is canonly possible.


Warnings: light slash, hints of incest, May-December relationships, This Odd Life Universe (AU)  
Pairings: In chronological order: hints of LuciusxDraco, (if you squint) SeverusxDraco, HarryxDraco, and Voldemort/Tom RiddlexDraco - not intended to have pairings, but hey, if that's what floats your boat...  
Summary: _The streetlights are always the same.  
_Please visit my LiveJournal and look at the prompt.

* * *

**Streetlights**

* * *

Draco has many memories.

* * *

His first: riding in his father's convertible at age three, roof down, windows open, watching as the streetlights whiz by.

They are in Chicago, or Houston, or some other big city; he can't really remember, and the roadside is lit by periodic flashes of bright red and yellow, half-blinding him as he leans out of the window he can barely reach to feel the wind ruffling his hair and stinging his face. He laughs, carefree, as the world whooshes by, and turns to his father, who is leaning slightly forward, gripping the steering wheel the way he grips control of his life. Daddy's eyes are focused on the road, his long, fine hair whipping around his face as he drives down the highway.

Draco looks over at his Daddy, and his Daddy spares a moment from challenging the road with his grey falcon-eyes to give Draco a warm, slight smile, gleaming white teeth barely showing. It says, _you are my son and I am your father_, and _I love you_, and _now we two are all alone, alone together, alone amongst the world in its entirety and impurity and against it as well, we two the unique, the privileged, the divine, as we drive, drive, drive to oblivion_ – though Draco doesn't understand it yet – and nothing at all.

Hardly anyone else is driving at this hour, but Mummy is over in France visiting Grandmère and Grandpère, and what she doesn't know can't hurt Draco, and Daddy knows that Draco loves riding in his car. Draco had been especially sure to be good for Daddy, because while Mummy might tolerate his tantrums and give him cookies to quiet him down, Daddy had told him a long time ago that he wanted to be Proud of Draco.

Draco wasn't quite sure what exactly Proud was, but he gathered that Daddy was Proud when Draco did things that weren't very fun, like not fidgeting during long, boring parties where Mummy's friends all came up to him and squeezed his cheeks so hard they hurt, and that when Daddy was Proud, Draco got things he wanted. Draco quite liked it when Daddy was Proud; not just because of the presents, but because Daddy got a little glow around his face when someone complimented his son, and his eyes look at Draco like he's the only one in the world that matters, and he smiles.

So they're out at one o'clock in the morning, because that was when Daddy finished his work, and Draco liked night better than daytime anyway so he'd still been awake, driving down the highway, cool wind in their faces, eyes open, hair streaming, laughing and smiling, and Draco is going with his Daddy to Draco-didn't-know-where-and-he-didn't-care, and he'd never been happier.

* * *

His second: going to private school in a long limousine all slickly black and gleaming.

The students move into dormitories early at Hogwarts, Elite School for Gifted Children, and his parents are bringing him there for the very first time to set up all of his things.

It is early evening, and the old-fashioned streetlamps along the path to Hogwarts are glowing softly, welcoming, in the grey-blue-burgundy-purple of the twilight sky. They glitter, somehow, like the coldcold stars in the sky that are burning balls of gas once you get too close. A man comes out to meet them.

It is Uncle Severus, Draco's favorite of all of Daddy's friends, he who always brings sweets and taught Draco his first potions just two summers ago. He loves Uncle Severus, and when Daddy announces that Draco will, of course, be sorted under his tutelage and guidance to the best House, Slytherin, Draco squeals (just a small one; Malfoys never squeal) with delight and hugs him about the waist. Professor Snape (Draco needs to start calling him that at school) looks stern, but a corner of his mouth is slowly lifting upwards, and he pats his godson on the back gently.

The loudspeakers announce that all new students must report to the Great Hall to be randomly Sorted into Houses, and Mummy and Daddy turn to Uncl-Professor Snape and tell him that they're leaving. Daddy turns and, giving Draco a half-hug, leaves, walking back to the limousine as soon as he says his goodbyes, but Mummy stays, entreats Professor Snape to look after her darling, her sweetheart, her baby boy, then sweeps Draco up in her perfumed, silken embrace, dramatic tears wetting his uniform. He kisses her on the cheek and waves goodbye to his father, then turns and follows Professor Snape into the school.

* * *

His third: locker room in sixth year of school, rival team beaten, entire group of people around him pounding him on the back and whistling and laughing.

He's just beaten Potter for the very first time, and life is good. Draco sees Flint in the corner, smirking and furtively collecting something green and papery from a skinny boy he doesn't recognize, and Zabini and Goyle and Crabbe are all surrounding him with their praise, bathing him in glory.

He loves it. This is his element, to be worshipped and loved, and he basks in it, revels in it, and the feeeling of _winning_ and being powerful is heady and strong, intoxicating. He can still hear cheering from outside the locker room, where a group of the more enthusiastic fans are still out there, shrieking and screaming and waiting for them to come out, but waiting for _him_ especially, waiting to bow down and sacrifice to their gods. Draco knows that many of them look at him, look at his steel-flint eyes, silver-snow hair, elegant cheekbones, and lust for him. He also knows that many look at the same things and are in awe of him. He is divine. He is their God. And they all scream his name in praise and reverence.

Just to see what happens, to confirm what he already knows, Draco goes out onto the field, head thrown back, hair glistening with sweat, wild and proud and beautiful, walks out into the glaring lights of the playing field (and if he looks further abroad, the streetlights are winking and sparkling and saying, you are the victor, the triumphant, we shine for your glory) running one hand through his hair to slick it back from where it's fallen in front of his face, and the noise swells as he approaches the stand at the right, closest to where he came out, and he raises a hand and gestures regally in a kingly wave. Nothing chummy, not degrading or friendly; it is the wave of a king to his subjects, of a god to the men and women whose lives he rules, the wave of a person who, in one fell swoop, can and will sweep all of their lives away into the dust. The girl-fans are leaning over the handrails now, trying desperately to touch him, some part of him, get his sweat on their skin, feel his hair and face with their fingers, brush his clothing or hand, and he wonders that none of them have the wit to try and descend from where they're sitting to better approach him then. At the same time, he is pleased, because the fact is that they _cannot_ think of it because he is their idol, and therefore divine and unapproachable, untouchable save by yearning fingers stretching as far as possible to brush part of his being, and that they are still trying to reach him even though they haven't succeeded proves the strength of their devotion to him, and oh, oh, oh...it is glorious.

Regretfully, he turns to head back and change in earnest, because the sky is pitch-black and it's already eleven at night and his college-level Chemistry class has an exam first thing the next morning, and it's Professor Snape teaching, his favorite teacher, and Draco doesn't want to disappoint him by failing because of a lack of sleep, but then someone beckons to him from the edge of the field.

It is Potter.

Draco walks over because, well, he'd _won_, hadn't he? and the victor ought to be gracious and not rub it in the loser's face saying, _nyah nyah nya-nyah nyah,_but honestly, once he got within a two-foot radius of Potter, the childish urge rose higher and higher. He crushed it back. There was no sense in kicking someone while he was down, and Draco remembered that Potter had refrained from doing the same. Of course, part of it might have been that the stick up Potter's ass was preventing him from even _thinking_of such un-stupid, un-noble, un-_Gryffindor_ things, and the other part might have been that Potter was too dull to have a personality and, by default, an urge to gloat, but Draco thought he should prove himself the better man, and so went over with full intention to do so.

Potter stands there and just looks at him, and Draco stares right back, sees the bright-green of his eyes and the disgusting untidiness of his hair, and he thinks a little hysterically that Potter is staring at him the exact same way his worshippers do, but there is no sign of reverence in Potter's eyes, except perhaps for a small spark of the sort of worship that comes of seeing a beautiful, lovely thing and wanting it, _wanting _it hopelessly, and he remembers that Potter is a sort of a god too, that Potter has his _own_ supplicants and that it makes them sort of equals only _of course_ he was better than Potter, Potter the charity child and scholarship student, and then Potter extends his right hand with its grubby nails and grass-stained skin and says, "Good game."

And Draco is stunned for a moment before he smiles his brilliantly white, blinding smile and reaches over, grasping Potter's hand in his and shakes firmly, from god to god.

"You too."

* * *

His fourth; in the Manor's living room, relaxed in his favorite comfortable dress clothes but standing alert while, outside, the streetlights are far, far away but still blinking on and off and flashing colors.

Father has said that he wants Draco to meet a very special person, someone that he has worked for for years and years to accomplish great things.

Draco was surprised and a little bit disgusted because hadn't Father said that _Malfoys stood alone and proud_ and hadn't his father said to _nevernevernever rely on anyone else_ and Draco had done that during his school years, hadn't he? but now he remembers that Father had spoken of a Voldemort to his mother, in fervent whispers and cautious voices, and even in passing to Draco himself.

Still, he is doubtful as to why exactly his father, his strong, capable, arrogant father would deem to serve somebody that had to be spoken of under a pseudonym only (because there was absolutely no way that anyone would have been named Voldemort by his or her parents; if nothing else, he or she would have almost certainly committed suicide by his or her tenth birthday), and wonders briefly if his father is having one of those debt-induced Italian Mafioso troubles (and he knows more than the average person, even the average rich person, about the Mafia, because one of his best friends, Blaise Zabini, is the sophisticated, educated, ruthless son of one of the major families and is also one of Draco's worshippers) and is about to suggest that he call Blaise to inquire as to whether he could get them out of it when his father steps back in with another man behind him.

All of a sudden, Draco's doubts and questions vanish. The sheer power of this man - Voldemort? - is evident by his presence and appearance alone, and he no longer wonders why his father chose to serve him. Father introduces him as Mr. Tom Riddle, and tells Mr. Riddle with a distinct note of pride in his voice that _ this is his son, the prodigal wonder._

Mr. Riddle looks at Draco with greengreen eyes under smooth black hair, and suddenly Draco is reminded of Potter, but Potter was only a demi-god, a faun, even, compared to the sheer awesomeness of this man's aura, and even Draco, Draco the adored, the loved, the revered, the divine - even Draco is feeling humbled in his presence.

Riddle speaks, voice smooth and rich and low. "So this is your son," he says to Father, and then follows up with the usual meaningless drivel complimenting Draco's accomplishments and his looks and him in general. Draco is breathless, mindless, soulless with awe, and for the first time, he finds what it must be like to be the worshipper, to be the one dancing and singing and killing for a god, for his god, and he loves it, loves the adrenaline rush, loves the feeling in his chest that sings out, _yes, yes, I'd do anything for you, just look my way, smile at me, **know I exist** and I will do anything and everything._

Father is explaining, something about Riddle being an important underground politician, one of the aspiring heirs to the throne in a small, rich country Draco has heard of once or twice but never paid attention to, and all Draco can see is Riddle's brightbright eyes, staring through his soul, and his lips shaping words.

And Draco says

_Yes.  
_


End file.
